Fallon caught her. He felt her wince under his hands. He didn't know quite what he wanted, except that she must be safe.
He only said, "Hurry, before those things get here."
The throb of wings was deafening. Bjarnsson came in, swinging his club. His cragged face was bloody, but his pale eyes blazed.
"Good man, Fallon," he grunted. "All right, let's go. There's a cave below here. Take their guns, young lady. We'll need them."
The sky beyond the west windows was clogged with huge black shapes. Fallon remembered the smashed windows of the department store in Santa Monica. "Joan," he said, "come here."
He put his arm around her shoulders. He might have walked all right without her, but somehow he wanted her there.
They dropped down the other side of the hill into a little brush-choked cleft. There was a shallow cave at one end.
"There go my windows," said Bjarnsson, and cursed in Swedish. "In with you, before those flying devils find us."
They were well hidden. Chances were the rays would go right over them—after they'd finished off Kashimo and his men. Bjarnsson said softly, "What did they want with me, Fallon?"